


Blind Faith

by motsureru



Series: The Plan [2]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Mohinder/Sylar fic set in the same ‘verse as <b>The Plan</b>. Post-season 3, operating under the (AU) assumption that Nathan has had those with abilities imprisoned, and that Mohinder is being used as the scientist with the task to figure out how to eliminate powers, no matter what the cost of life.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Faith

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for[](http://ladywilde80.livejournal.com/profile)[ **ladywilde80**](http://ladywilde80.livejournal.com/) (because she loves the smut) and[](http://levitatethis.livejournal.com/profile)[ **levitatethis**](http://levitatethis.livejournal.com/), whose Christmas wish for _Mohinder/Sylar PWP: one of them is blindfolded but the POV is from the one who can see everything_ inspired this.Though I admit a little plot snuck in here.
> 
> A huge thanks to [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/) for her wonderful beta work!

“It helps me forget.”

He had whispered those words so urgently that Sylar didn’t question them. Not once. The first time, it had been clumsy, a little awkward, but he had let it go; Mohinder needed to let the world slip into darkness, and Sylar was happy to bring the void. Unintentionally, it became a sort of habit to steal Mohinder into that realm when he least expected it. Tonight was one of those nights.

Mohinder usually came home as early as possible from the laboratory Nathan Petrelli had built for him. Day in and day out, seeing familiar and unfamiliar faces come and go and sometimes never come again- it was hard on Mohinder. Harder than he would have liked to admit. But Sylar saw it. Sylar had seen Mohinder’s misery even from a distance. He had seen it in the way Mohinder hung his shoulders when he walked at Nathan’s side. He had even heard it in the man’s despondent heartbeat trudging along, taking each and every day only with the greatest of effort. For a long while, Sylar had felt a bitter satisfaction in seeing Mohinder’s despair. Mohinder had chosen a side foolishly, again. He had not realized, as Sylar had, that no side at all was the correct choice.

But after months of watching, months of seeing the shadows grow longer on Mohinder’s face, Sylar began to recognize that there was no joy to be had in Mohinder’s distress. Arthur Petrelli, Mohinder might have walked away from; Nathan Petrelli was not quite the same. Mohinder wasn’t just researching for his own benefit anymore, or even for the benefit of mankind; he was putting people he once called friends, strangers he felt sympathy for, anyone Nathan asked, through torture in the name of national security. This time he did not do it because he was a fool, but because Nathan’s government, the government Mohinder had no allegiance to, would kill him if he did not. A man like Sylar, who had known and strangely respected the once great morality Mohinder Suresh had prided himself in, found it pitiable.

That was the reason Sylar had snuck into Mohinder’s apartment for the first time, some months after Nathan’s program went into effect. When they saw one another again, Mohinder hadn’t even had the energy, the emotion left to be angry that Sylar was there. “What have you let yourself become?” Sylar had asked quite simply. The glassy-eyed, hopeless look Mohinder gave him in response told Sylar that he had come just in time. Any longer and Mohinder might not have cared enough about the past, the future, revenge…He might not have cared enough about life itself for tears at all.

It took weeks of clandestine meetings and discussions late into the night for Sylar to begin to see vestiges of the Mohinder he once knew. Now Mohinder was not the idealistic doctor of a long winter road trip, or even the reticent scientist who had grudgingly given Sylar back his powers. Mohinder hadn’t even a reason to be driven by selfish motivations anymore, as Arthur Petrelli had once been wise enough to play on. The Mohinder Sylar found in Washington had spent months in his head with no one to pour out his desperation to. This Mohinder had been on the verge of a complete breakdown, one which would have manifested in a dangerously suicidal way soon if Sylar had not arrived. But the longer Sylar listened, the longer he let Mohinder tell him to his heart’s content of the evils he felt obligated to put to rest, to repent for, the more Sylar saw a familiar Mohinder that quietly lusted for brutal revenge and a justice higher than what either of them might have called ‘good’ in the past. Sylar was happy to feed the fires of vengeance, even if the embers were weak and plagued by Mohinder’s mangled spirit.

The fact that it was this damaged Mohinder that made the first sexual advance should not have shocked Sylar, but still, it did. He had been sitting on the arm of the couch, explaining something about the reaction time of paid security personnel, when Mohinder walked around his side and boldly grabbed his face, kissing him hard. It was needy, desperate, reckless, but it was real. To Mohinder, proving he was real and human had become a novelty. After having watched him for so long, Sylar understood his desire to feel something keenly other than despair. In the end, becoming lovers, even if Mohinder would never admit that it was what they were, felt somehow inevitable. Sylar would have taken him in any form.

Somewhere along the way, between their deepening conversations and their developing intimacies, they had become very in tune with each other’s sexual needs. Mohinder knew that Sylar wouldn’t feel secure without being the one on top, but that he could give up control every now and then if the mood was right and his ego was satisfied. Sylar knew that Mohinder would never take it on his hands and knees and that he would never beg; he needed to feel respected if he was to be controlled, even in his current, emotionally weakened state. He would never completely submit- that was simply what it meant to be Mohinder.

At first, Sylar hadn’t understood the blindfold. He hadn’t understood how Mohinder could want to submit to a symbol of degradation and surrender so at odds with his usual needs. But when he finally said “It helps me forget,” Sylar came to realize that it wasn’t about symbolism at all. With this, he could lift just a little of the doctor’s burden, take his body somewhere safe, and let the world around Mohinder sink into oblivion.

Tonight was one of those nights when all Mohinder needed was darkness. 

During the day, Sylar had watched the man from afar as he always did. He watched Mohinder pass between buildings, shuffling from meeting to laboratory to meeting again. The tension in his body, the tightness that spoke of the cracks forming in his calm façade- they were both audible and visible to Sylar. Some days were better than others. He could see that, by the end of this day, Mohinder would scarcely be able to take in a breath without breaking. 

So it was that Sylar waited patiently, pressed against the wall beside the front door, listening for the click of the doctor’s footsteps down the hall. When they approached, Sylar’s fingers tightened around the dark blue satin fabric he held in his hands. The jingle of keys sounded. The lock turned. 

When Mohinder entered, briefcase in hand, Sylar stepped up quickly behind him, wrapping the smooth fabric over his eyes. Mohinder gasped, heart rate spiking, but he didn’t resist in the slightest. Sylar slammed the door shut with his foot and turned the man, pressing the front of Mohinder’s body against the wood while he tied a tight knot deftly from behind. 

Sylar pressed his lips against Mohinder’s ear when he was done, wrapping one arm around the man’s chest and another around his waist. “Welcome home,” he breathed out, lowering his mouth to Mohinder’s throat and kissing warmly there. The doctor let out a sigh, a mix of relief and anticipation, and covered one of Sylar’s hands with his own, dropping his briefcase carelessly to the floor.

“What a long day,” Mohinder murmured.

Turning the doctor’s body once again, Sylar lifted his hands to hold Mohinder’s tan cheeks and placed his lips soundly over his mouth. Pushing close, Sylar moved those hands down and began to strip away Mohinder’s brown coat, pulling his face back slightly to watch the darker man’s parted lips and covered eyes. “It’s over now,” he reassured quietly. 

Sylar rested his palms on Mohinder’s hips, a familiar signal when this began at the door. Mohinder placed his hands upon Sylar’s shoulders and then braced his weight there, giving a light leap of his legs to reach Sylar’s waist. Sylar met the little jump halfway, placing his hands under Mohinder’s thighs and holding him up. He was rewarded with Mohinder’s mouth searching for his own, catching Sylar’s chin first and then correcting the problem with several more unabashed kisses as he wrapped his arms about the man’s neck.

“Kitchen?” Sylar whispered between those lips, feeling Mohinder kick off his shoes.

“Bed,” Mohinder murmured, sliding his hands deep into Sylar’s black hair, tugging and feeling out what he could not see. Sylar indulged his request, feeling his skin prickle in desire from the arousal he could already feel through Mohinder’s slacks, pushing against his lower belly. He stumbled a bit inelegantly through the living room and down the hall to Mohinder’s bedroom. 

Normally, Mohinder’s room was a wreck, strewn with clothing. But on nights like these, when Sylar was likely to spend the better part of his evening in Mohinder’s company, the room was put in careful order and the bedding changed long before the doctor ever came home. It was on those neat blankets that Sylar carefully set Mohinder, crawling over him and nudging him back, ducking to kiss and bite along his jaw. He hovered above him, knees set on either side of Mohinder’s hips.

“Clothes?” Sylar asked close to his ear. 

“Off.” Mohinder took in a shuddering breath, feeling blindly for the edge of Sylar’s shirt. When he found it, Sylar stopped unbuttoning Mohinder’s clothing so that the offending materials could be pulled up and over his head for him. Then Sylar returned the favor, opening Mohinder’s dress shirt and tugging it down his lean arms. As Sylar did so, he traveled down Mohinder’s chest with wet lips and tongue, but kept his eyes directed above, watching every reaction, every twitch, every escaping gasp so beautifully revealed to him. No matter how many times he saw the doctor unfold before him, it was to be reveled in.

When Mohinder’s arms were free, they groped for Sylar’s shoulders and felt across his back and neck, mapping out the exposed flesh with fingertips, defining his world of blackness in terms of muscle and heat. Sylar took that moment to unbutton his own jeans, pushing them low and wriggling free before he finished licking and kissing his trail over Mohinder’s torso. 

When he was done, Sylar sat up a little, resting his hands on Mohinder’s belt, simply watching the man’s half-clothed form. Mohinder was breathing unevenly, hands dropping to worry at the sheets. His brown skin seemed to glisten, to thrive, warmed and eager because of Sylar’s attention and awaiting the next move. Sylar stared, memorizing the man’s wanton form, feeling his nerves on edge from the mere knowledge that every last sigh and moan was his alone, now. Mohinder was willingly at his mercy, a secret, coveted wish Sylar had rarely admitted to himself in the past. No matter how he had come by it, it was his. Sylar felt intoxicated by the sound of pulsing blood through Mohinder’s body and the flutter of his eyelashes behind the satin blindfold. It was all for him. The more he took that knowledge in by sight and sound and touch, the more it excited him.

“ _Wh-what_ …?” Mohinder finally asked, cocking his head to the side as if to discern by sound alone why his lover did nothing.

Sylar reined in his lust quietly and bent down to place a kiss against Mohinder’s navel. “Nothing,” he replied. He supposed it was the first night they’d spoken again, when Mohinder nearly broke down into desperate tears, that he had let go of all his animosity towards this man. He supposed it was that night that he decided he had to have him, to fix him. In moments like this, no matter how ardently he wanted Mohinder’s body, Sylar felt compelled to show him deeper things worth living for. He had just never expected to be able to do it this way.

Slipping a hand down, Sylar covered the front of Mohinder’s slacks with his palm and squeezed there, stroking the straining erection slowly but firmly as his other hand undid the man’s belt and zipper. “Focus on my hands, Mohinder. On what I’m doing,” he ordered. Mohinder groaned, tossing his head back as Sylar’s touch left briefly to do away with those pants, his boxers, even his socks; Sylar stripped Mohinder of any trace of the day and left him bare, free again. “Roll over.” The doctor obeyed, moving onto his stomach without question.

Strong hands massaged slowly up Mohinder’s thighs, over his lower back to his shoulders and back down again. They worked away the tension, they soothed in a way both delicate and firm. Mohinder gasped when cold lubrication met his skin, but arched his lower body up willingly when Sylar’s warm fingertips worked it over and into him with the utmost care. He moaned softly, pressing his blind eyes to the mattress, allowing only a small cry when his body was stretched to penetration.

Sylar waited, kneeling low and grasping Mohinder’s hips from behind, raising them slightly higher off the mattress, patient for his body to relax. When he saw the man’s grip on the sheets ease, he began to move, beginning an unhurried rhythm, making every push and pull between them savored. A thin sheen of sweat broke across his pale body, telltale of the effort it took to take his time, to build up the pace until Mohinder demanded more. Mohinder’s desire was not as fragile as his state of mind; he would demand more.

The command was Sylar’s name, uttered softly in a single breath. Sylar shifted down, stretching his body out over Mohinder’s, bracing himself on a forearm as he took him harder, one hand still holding Mohinder’s hip in place, his chest brushing over the darker man’s shoulder blades when he moved. Mohinder was arching back against him, lifting his hips to bear the authority of each thrust, his arms crossed against the mattress and his head bowed into them as he breathed heavily. It was the closest to being on his hands and knees that he would ever let Sylar have, but the man above could hardly complain. Before long, Mohinder needed more.

“ _Harder._ ” Mohinder wanted to feel the kind pain that he could relish.

Sylar sat up again, seizing Mohinder’s hips with both hands and going faster, pumping roughly into his tightening body. He watched the bend of Mohinder’s body braced against each motion, the way his black curls scattered against the back of his neck and his arms. It was a precious fantasy realized. Sylar squeezed the man’s hips, pulling back slowly once so that he could force his way brutally in again. Mohinder groaned hoarsely.

“ _Again!_ ” Mohinder needed to feel alive.

Sylar hissed between his teeth, reaching one hand to grasp Mohinder’s shoulder and rock violently against his body, slamming the frame of the bed against the wall with each movement. Sylar’s blood was boiling, his head swimming with hunger as sharp as the first time. Mohinder’s skin was hot and slick to the touch.

“ _Again!_ ”

Driving down fiercely, Sylar felt a bruising ache in his pelvic bone, sharing in Mohinder’s impulsive pain. Any lingering animosity between them, the way they had hurt each other in the past, Sylar imagined they exchanged it nostalgically here and smothered it in the ecstasy it wrought. He felt his muscles burning, tense from his struggling effort to hold onto the rapture of that pain, that consuming intensity that Mohinder needed now. 

The man beneath him gave a torrid gasp, muscles clenching taut and fingers clawing at the sheets below. Mohinder choked out his last moan, his body shaking from the strength of his finish, and Sylar dug his fingernails into that dark flesh at his own rigid orgasm, buried deeply in the man’s body. The pleasure was excruciating, agonizing, and for the next several moments neither man could move, only pant for breath and allow the power of it pass.

Mohinder’s body collapsed against the bed, his face still hidden in his arms. Sylar released his hold on the doctor’s shoulder, which was red and raw from the grip, and let his palm trail slowly down the shape of Mohinder’s body. He pulled out and leaned over Mohinder’s pliant form, a hand on either side of him, and began to place small kisses up the salty skin of his spine, tracing the curve with his mouth and tongue. When he arrived at the nape of Mohinder’s neck, Sylar let their bodies settle against one another and reached for the knot of the blindfold. He was stopped with a sudden jerk of Mohinder’s head, trying to look back at the face he could not see.

“ _Not… not yet. Just a little while longer_ ,” he breathed out softly. 

Gazing at that troubled face, at the raw need in that blinded expression, Sylar pressed a quiet kiss of understanding against Mohinder’s ear. He reached up, pulling the man’s damp curls away from where they stuck to his cheeks and throat. Then he wrapped that arm around him, hoping to ward off the chill of the air and the threat of the world outside of Mohinder’s darkness. 

For now, it was all Sylar could do. All he could offer Mohinder was a feeling of safety in a place where nothing else existed- no experiments, no torture, no innocent murders in the name of the science Mohinder had once loved. Here, Sylar could blind Mohinder to any world but this one, this touch, which came with a pain that did not linger and fester, but flared into pleasure and ebbed into a comfort that would leave in the morning but surely return again the next night. It was a pain that begot some twisted form of love instead of misery and death. 

Sylar never expected a day when he would bend willingly to Mohinder’s spoken and unspoken whims. He never expected to feel the man’s desperation so keenly. But laying here, knowing every ounce of despair in Mohinder by sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch, he knew that he was exactly where he needed to be. It was a slow process, painfully slow, but once Petrelli was dead and Mohinder’s time could be spent with Sylar alone, away from his daily tortures, Sylar was sure he would find a way to finally fix this man. He wanted it. He had faith in it. But for now, all Sylar could do was salvage the pieces. 


End file.
